


Commonwealth

by hegemony



Category: Captain America (Movies), Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Anal Play, Angst, BDSM, Domestic Fluff, Electricity, Friends to Lovers, Humiliation, Leather Kink, M/M, Military Fetish, Painplay, Prostate Massage, Punishment, Risk Aware Consensual Kink, Shower Sex, Subspace
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-25
Updated: 2013-02-25
Packaged: 2017-12-03 15:03:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,479
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/699537
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hegemony/pseuds/hegemony
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's the first night Jim's back in town from two weeks in DC, but Steve can't hold onto this any longer. </p><p>Perhaps a little cruelty will help even things back out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Commonwealth

**Author's Note:**

> Written on a valentines day lark for Avengerkink, under the [ prompt](http://avengerkink.livejournal.com/13316.html?thread=32195844#t32195844): _Rhodey/Steve, BDSM, Steve's been a very bad boy_. I was looking for a challenge, so I specifically tried to write this in the perspective of an increasingly unreliable narrator. 
> 
> Thank you as always goes to Stephanometra and Yugimutos, for being there to hear me complain, talk all theoretical about the etiquette of non-impact punishment, and giving me all the best endings. 
> 
> Also, please heed the warnings. Those tags escalate quickly for a reason, really.

“Well,” Rhodes says thoughtfully, “I would be lying if I said I wasn't disappointed.” 

Steve expected that, he supposes. They're side by side washing the dishes from dinner but Rhodes' eyes flick up, stare at him. They're searching for something. Steve feels himself chafe.

It's been a hard few days. 

“What...” He reaches out, finds Jim's hand in the soapy water. “What do you think I should do?” 

A pregnant moment arises, punctuated by the sound of their breath. Jim smiles at him wistfully. His thumb traces a vein on the back of Steve's knuckles as it disappears into each finger. 

“Stop,” Rhodes advises. “You should stop.” 

“I should stop what?” 

“Thinking,” he replies. “Avoiding, maybe. Assuming. I'm not mad, y'know. I understand.” 

Steve bites his cheek, looks down at the table, “but what if I don't?” 

“You could ask for help,” Jim shrugs. “We could either talk about it or take your mind off it.” 

“I guess we could,” Steve says, “But I think everything I want to tell you will just come out wrong? I'm nervous.” 

“I don't mind if you don't want to talk,” he says. “We could fall in, if you want.” 

Steve's mouth twists into a wry smile. “I think I'm overdue for that, honestly, but this was supposed to be your night. We were supposed to be doing what you wanted and...” 

“Knowing you're okay is really what I want. If working you over gets you closer to being okay, then I'll do it. I have to,” Jim shrugs, plucking another plate from the water.

“You have to, huh?” Steve asks. 

“Trust me on this one,” Jim nods. “I have to.” 

 

 

 

 

The vintage chair in their bedroom is covered in beaten tan leather. Jim walks over, sits down. He runs his hands over the arm rests and takes a deep breath. He sits up against the back of the chair and rests a leg on top of the other, looks on like a general surveying his battlefield. 

“You want the key?” 

The wet bar they'd retrofitted to hold their kit is locked most nights, leather and bamboo and rubber hidden behind antique mahogany. They've gone without, but that protocol limits the horizon. Steve likes that tenuous relationship that evolves when Jim's on top, and knows its best when they're working with all the tools. 

“Yes sir, I do.” 

He's looking for cruelty tonight. 

Jim's lips curl into a deceiving smile. This sort of arousal still feels so alien to Steve, even though they've been working at this for the last few months. He knows what to do. 

Jim's leather gloves sit on top of the locked cabinet. Steve reaches for them, walks to Jim and holds them out. It's a fair trade, the gloves for the key. 

“Sixty seconds to decide, soldier,” Jim says. “Before I decide for you.” 

He unlocks the case, spreads the doors apart as he kneels to survey his options. Itchy fingers reach for the knife. He knows Jim would be-- 

“You should be careful before I test out the serum with that knife,” Jim chides casually. He sounds bored and Steve reminds himself that this is how Jim descends, builds the false sense of security that makes the rest so spectacular. 

Jim's got years on him with this and knows exactly where to push to drive Steve right into the ground. 

“Twenty seconds, soldier,” Jim says. 

They don't make this a regular thing because whatever inside Jim that makes him so good at this doesn't allow him to give Steve what he wants every time he asks. There's a gamble, the risk of denial hanging over Steve's head. 

“You have ten seconds before I stretch you wide as you'll go and stuff you up with whatever we've got left in the fridge.” 

Steve smiles inwardly at the first sign of venom in Jim's voice. He pulls out an old glove and gauntlet from three design cycles ago, a reactor harness made from the old rubble of a War Machine suit. It was a science project a few months back: they tinkered until they had an electrical prod worthy of a super soldier. Steve gets hard just looking at it, knowing the power in it, what it did once and what it does, now. 

“Come here,” Jim says. 

“Sir yes sir,” Steve replies easy as breathing. 

He lays the gauntlet on the table beside Jim, listens to him sigh like a disappointed parent. “I thought this was supposed to be a punishment, soldier.”

“Sir,” Steve replies, holding Jim's gaze just like he's been trained. “Yes, sir.” 

Silence.

“Why did you ask if you knew you were going to go easy on yourself?” 

“Be-because I--” 

“Is it because you lack discipline?” Jim asks quietly. “Because you've been thinking about giving the things that belong to me away to someone like you still own them?” 

“I don't kno--” 

Jim cuts him off, curtly. “You think you'll learn your lesson like this?” 

“Sir,” Steve grits out. 

“Fall in,” Jim replies and rises from the chair as Steve sinks onto his knees. He walks to Steve lazily as he pulls the gloves on, flexing his fists. He stands off to the side. “Ready, front.” 

“Sir,” Steve replies, returns his gaze to the chair. Leather-covered fingers reach into his hair and grab a handful, pulling backward. It takes a moment to fight his normal reaction, keep his hands down and keep his mouth shut and lean into it. He's already getting pulled backward, and has to scramble to keep up. Steve can feel adrenaline flooding into his veins. 

A swift jerk and he's having to follow as Jim drags him back to the kit. 

“Pick a real punishment, soldier.” 

There are a few: the metal heels, the box of needles, the shaving razor, the speculums and the posture collar with the metal struts. The cane even hurts a little more than either of them really appreciate. He's had power to veto all these additions to the cabinet and hasn't said 'no' once. 

Steve hesitates for a moment, puts his hand over the cloth bag they almost never use. 

“Safeword?” Jim orders, and there's a little more venom in his voice, a rich master's bass. 

“Sir, oubliette, sir.” 

“Parade, attent-,” Jim drawls out. Before he can finish the word, Steve's already moving, stretching, crawling to the spot in front of the chair again. He leans back onto his knees and places his hands behind his head, all ten fingertips lined up on the back of his neck. His eyes rest upon the chair. He knows this position well. 

The bag hits the floor. Steve knows the sound of cuffs being pulled out of wherever Rhodes likes to keep them. 

There's a shift behind him. Another and another, narrowly avoiding bumping into him. Steve knows the sounds of boots being toed off, a belt being unbuckled. A hitch of breath. Steve's mouth waters.

Jim stretches out on the floor, lays his head on Steve's thigh, just in his vision. He keeps his eyes forward, lets them go soft to compensate. They have an agreement when he's this way: a grunt, cavalry. He's not allowed to look with appraisal, desire, or want. This is training: he is to focus on the task at hand, whatever Jim decides that is. He has to keep reminding himself that before he brings his fingers down to trace the cut of Jim's hair and the curve of his nose. 

It takes a few minutes; his calf starts to burn, thigh trembling under the weight of Jim's head. He curls his toes to stave off the ache. 

“You'll pull a muscle that way,” Jim says, “It'll hurt.”

“Sir, yes sir,” Steve replies. 

“I want it to hurt,” he says, lazily. 

Steve takes an urgent breath, and Jim squirms further up into his lap a little. Another few minutes in this position and a wave of fatigue sets into his arms, his fingers and hips. Steve licks his lips, knows the stress of this position means nothing to Jim, means everything. He can feel the contradiction in Jim's touch, the gloved hand tracing over his jaw and the rise and fall of his chest. Jim sits up, beside him, gets his feet under him into a squat. 

“Parade, prone.” 

Steve can't even feel himself spread out on the floor, down into a push-up. He holds it there, balances as Jim kicks his feet apart and slides hands against Steve's hips. He stays still as hands make quick work of his fly, slowly pushing his jeans and underwear to mid-thigh. Leather settles around his thighs, calves. They buckle precariously tight. 

“'ten-tion.” 

Steve flicks himself back up, knees underneath him, elbows bent above his head, eyes at the chair. Jim locks his thighs and his calves together. Steve shivers at the thought of the bag again, containing all the things they never do, thinks of how it'll be with no way to defend himself from it. 

“Inward, dress,” Jim says, and Steve spreads his arms out, holds them up. He feels the cuffs on each side, feels how hands that have done this a million times before work silently with little care. “Attention.” 

Steve's hands fold back into their place behind his neck. Jim locks wrists to biceps, hobbling him once more. 

“Get used to it, soldier,” he says. Steve looks down at his bondage, tries to move each individual limb and realizes he won't be getting too far unless he really wants to break their gear. 

“Sir thank you, sir,” Steve replies. Jim sits behind him. 

Fingers trace his half-hard erection. A hand settles around it gracefully and slides dryly to coax him to full staff. Like he needs the extra stimulation, Steve thinks, being hobbled like this. All he needs in this position is fifteen minutes of squirming and he'd be on the edge of coming, Jim knows that. Hell, he's even promised Steve even more constriction in the past, said they'll work up to the point where Steve can be folded in half and tied up that way: legs tucked behind his head and arms wrapped around his ba--

Hands grab onto the hem of Steve's ratty shirt, the one he'd been sparring in all day, violently pulling it over his head. He can't see anything, a curtain of black fabric over his eyes and nose as his mouth is left to hanging free. Another spike of adrenaline rushes through him, fight or flight that he has to suppress. 

His wrists are locked together, holding the shirt in place. Just a clean, cut torso as it descends into hips, crotch, thighs. Jim takes his mouth, kisses until Steve can feel his lips swell with the pressure of staying still as his hands wander in the creases of his muscles. His toes curl. 

He wonders what Jim will give him next. It turns out to be hands, the caress of someone appreciating his belongings, leather dragging upward from the thigh to Steve's mouth. 

“Salute.” 

Steve opens his mouth. Fingers approach Steve's tongue, rubbing idle circles against his gag reflex. He fights it. Forcing a reaction, Steve reminds himself, does not mean a reaction should be given. 

“Nice to see you remember our training.” 

Steve feels a twisted shudder of pride run through him, he's getting better at this game. The pressure wanes on Steve's tongue and Jim's hand sweeps over the shirt, to the back of Steve's head to push him down to the hardwood floor. He knows what's coming next, he knows he'll hate it. 

“Relax.”

Jim presses wet fingers right against the place Steve hates them the most. He slowly, slowly stretches to take them in. Jim's insistent, little bursts of pleasure until before Steve's even aware of it, three fingers are breaching him, stroking inside, seeking to find--. 

“ _Oh, fuck_ ” 

“You remember the last time your mouth got you demoted, Soldier?” Jim reminds. Steve sort of hates when he's Jim's cadet. Last time, Jim left him frogtied for an afternoon, hooked up to an old standing mixer with attachments that fucked his mouth and cock at the same time until he was a humiliated, mindless mess. Called it 'Basic training,' like it was jumping jacks or push-ups. “Don't give me a reason to do it again.” 

“Sir, sorry, sir,” he replies. 

“Remember what I taught you,” Jim snaps, and shoves his fingers in even deeper. It's gonna hurt, getting what's into the bag to fit. Steve doesn't like invasion, finds this kind of sex boring and knows Jim's not fond of it either. When they're not like this, it's long decadent blow jobs and makeshift puppy-pile-cum-wrestling-matches, bodies all over each other as cocks meet up. It's great, it's a part of them that they can't describe to anyone else but makes sense, bright and shiny--

The squelch of lube is the only warning of the plug. He tries to relax, push himself down to the floor like it would help. Another wave of pain washes over him, the texture so different than fatigue or alarm but heavy steel stretches Steve open even further than Jim's prep would allow. 

Steve reminds himself to breathe as it pulls away, replaced with Jim's fingers again. He bites back his moan. 

The plug returns and his body stretches to accommodate the metal but it's too much. Jim's fingers return again. 

“You can't power through this, soldier,” Jim says firmly. “It's not like chin-ups.” 

“Sir, I would probably prefer chin-ups to this, sir.” 

“That's why it's a punishment.” 

The plug is cold enough to make him jump every time it slides in a little deeper. Jim's good at this, arduous, like Steve's just a toy in this position- a hole Jim could fuck into but doesn't even bother. The feeling of his body stretching to take the rest of the plug causes him to jerk, make a noise like he's been cut. 

“You're okay,” Jim's voice soothes, a fleeting vision of who he really is. Steve's shivering, hips lowering to the floor like he'll adjust to it. “Give yourself time.” 

Steve loses track of himself with his bottom half alight. He's hard enough to hammer nails, hanging heavy between his legs. Jim doesn't touch there, rubs circles with lube-wet leather gloves on Steve's lower back, staying quiet as Steve comes to grips. 

“Please, please,” Steve gasps. 

“Compliments on the March, Soldier?” 

Steve licks his lips and squeezes his eyes shut, heart beating out of his chest. “Sir, no sir.” 

“Then no, you may not. Prime and load,” Jim commands and that sergeant that relishes in Steve's misfortune is back. 

It's hard to be graceful like this, so much of him still focused on the intrusion pushing him open and putting pressure everywhere. It takes time to force himself back onto his elbows, get his knees up under him. He feels like a circus animal. It doesn't take much to fall backward and land with a thump. 

The space around him feels cold. He closes his eyes and splays himself out flat, pushes his hips down even though it means he's stuck. He feels a bit like a Christmas goose, trussed up and spread out and stuffed up; all that's left is for Jim to finish the job. 

There's clattering from afar, the sound of Jim putting on the harness, the reactor, the gauntlet and the glove with its exposed wires and battle damage. It powers up, familiar to both of them. Steve's heart thuds in his chest. Forever passes. The plug is an anchor weight inside him, little shots of discomfort to keep him grounded. He licks his lips, tries to even out his breathing and slow his pulse. In through the nose, out through the mouth. 

There's another sound, likely Jim leaning against the doorway to the bathroom. 

“I know you're wearing it.” Steve says, straining. “Sir.” 

“Good save,” Jim says, amusedly. There are loud footsteps against the hardwood floor, well placed. Steve knows he's been swarmed, cased, examined. He wills himself to stay still. “Will I need to gag you?” 

“I...I don't...” Steve stammers. 

Jim hooks his fingers in Steve's teeth, pulls down his jaw. His mouth stretches open, as wide as it can go. 

“You'll be good, won't you?” Jim asks. “Well behaved?” 

“Sir,” Steve can't enunciate it but can't not answer, either. “Yes, sir.” 

“You're turning red, soldier,” Jim comments. “Are you embarrassed?” 

“Sir, no sir.” 

“But surely you're not comfortable that way, either,” Jim replies. “There's a little humiliation in there somewhere.” 

Jim's hand pulls down a little more, the skin of Steve's lips starts to burn. Another count more, and then Jim's hand pulls away. There's a kiss, a sharp hesitation as warm lips fall upon his and it hurts a little to shove his mouth against Jim's, he has to endure the feel of a tongue flicking against broken skin. Steve whimpers, and knows it will come down to mercy. 

Electricity flicks against his chest, an angry jolt. Steve's mouth falls away to groan. 

“You undisciplined _fuck_ ,” Jim enunciates. The electricity reaches across a thigh this time, sensitive skin that causes a scream of surprise. 

“Sir!” 

“Hmm,” Jim sounds sterile. A moment, Jim's mouth against an exposed nipple, the tongue swirling gently. It's easy to whimper, easy to arch into the warmth, the shimmer of real pleasure. Jim's trained him here, too, taught him how to withstand clever fingers and lips in the areas that could usually make him come the fastest. “It must be hard.” 

Steve tries to remember his breath, the long inhale and the deep exhale, “Sir.” 

A moment's hesitation, and an intense jolt glances across the nipple. It hurts, searing snapping pain. It breaks his control down the middle, curled toes and hemorrhaging breath, trying so hard to center himself. 

Jim places his free hand down against Steve's forehead, and Steve feels the naked heat of it through the t-shirt over his eyes and nose. He can't keep up, can't breathe now, as Jim loses tempo. The glove is turned up high enough to drive him mad, as Jim glances his hand from neck to the chest, chest to the stomach, the torso, his hips and thighs. 

It's all whimpers and bitten off moans, Steve squirming and clenching. Jim comes at him from different directions and grazes all the parts of Steve that are exposed. He touches just hard enough for the electricity to really zap, like a cattle prod or a taser. Steve tries to squirm and flick but can't get away, can't throw him off. 

“You're making this harder for yourself,” Jim says, flatly. “You act like you're suffering.” 

“Sir, please, sir,” Steve struggles but Jim remains undeterred. 

“The thing is,” Jim pauses, lowers himself until they're body to shivering body. “Don't you know you were made for this, Soldier?” 

“Sir,” He can hear his own voice raise an octave as he struggles to get away. “Sir, no sir. I don't, sir.”

There's a brushing glance against his cock, hard as rock and soaked through with sweat. The position Jim's put him in means he can't turn his head much, but he can't control the way the rest of him thrashes about. A scream bubbles in his throat, and Steve can't catch his breath. 

He's gone. 

“Well, think about it. You were,” Jim hesitates a moment to place an electrified finger against Steve's nipple again, provoking another shout, “engineered to suffer like this. Your stamina, your demeanor. When they gave you all of this, they signed you up to a life of pain. They took the raw material of you and made it into some disfigured, grotesque, beautiful statement on tragedy.”

It sounds like a compliment in Steve's ears, and he can imagine what he looks like right now, can imagine the way Jim's staring at him. 

“Sir, thank you sir,” he chokes. 

“I'm just stating the obvious,” Jim says, bending one of Steve's legs into the hip, reaching to the underside of his thighs and his bare feet. He leans down, puts his face in the corner of Steve's folded hand wrist, “but I suppose you're welcome.” 

There's pressure against the plug, an incessant buzz, but it slowly cranks up and up until Steve realizes exactly what's happening to him. The electricity climbs again in intensity. It keeps climbing higher until all Steve can do is arch his back and scream, finally, every muscle in his body shaking from the agony. Steve finds his body clenching against his will against the plug cruelly sitting against his prostate, against Jim's electrified thumb tucked behind his balls. 

“Sir, may I come?” Steve fights to ask. 

“No.” 

A jolt that catches him off guard takes him even higher. “Sir may I come?” 

“Not yet, Soldier.” 

Jim wants him to beg, sob for it, but it's hard to even speak as pulses of blinding pain flick up into him at an alarming rate. For a moment, there's even less of Steve than there was when this started, there's nothing but meat, so lost inside himself. 

The sensation retreats quickly, and all he can do is catch his breath and hold himself in line. 

“God, you're beautiful when I splay you out like that. When you stand proud for me even though you don't want to,” Jim's free hand caresses Steve's body, his mouth laying a kiss at Steve's collarbone. Steve catches his breath, ducks his head as far as it can go on Jim's shoulder. “You make me want to see you in dress.” 

Dress is whatever Jim decides it is, most times. Some days it's rope or extra restraints. Other days, it's vibrators everywhere Steve's sensitive, little bullets taped to the insides of his knees and the folds of his thighs, the spaces behind his ears. Some days it's an excuse to switch positions, to evade giving all the orders when all Jim wants to do is watch Steve struggle and beg for release. 

“Please,” Steve gasps. 

“Please what?” Jim asks. 

“Please sir,” Steve says, shaky breath and tingling skin. “Prepare me, sir.”

Jim makes a noise of arousal that sounds like Steve's gutted him, leans down and takes Steve's mouth once more, and takes, and takes. He takes like he doesn't care if Steve will have nothing left by the time he's done. 

His mouth disappears, and there are footsteps away, Steve can hear the rummaging through the cabinets. 

Metal clatters on the floor next to Steve's head, and Jim walks around him again. “I'm going to put the trainers on you, now.” 

“Sir, thank you, sir.” 

Steve sort of doesn't know how to feel about the metal heel trainers, garroted pieces of armor cradling his toes and heels, forcing them to point down. Jim unclips the restraints holding Steve together, shucks off his pants, fits Steve's foot into one like Prince Charming sizing Cinderella. It's a perfect fit, and Jim locks him up tight. The second shirks on even easier. 

“Compliments on the march?” Jim asks. Is it tight enough, do they hurt, you can back out if this is too much. 

“Sir, thank you, sir,” Steve says with determination. 

“Parade, Attention,” Jim orders, and it's even harder to get to his knees like this, no hands or feet to help stabilize. He can't see the chair, can't figure out which direction to hold himself. His cock hits his torso, heavy and slick. By the time he finally works way up to sitting, his arms are already tingling with pinpricks of fatigue again. “We'll have to drill that, I expect quicker.” 

“Sir, yes sir,” Steve says, even though he's unsure there's any way to do it quicker. He'll figure it out, Jim will make him try. “I will do better.” 

“I'll see to it that you do,” Jim replies. 

His cock becomes restricted, and Jim reaches down to caress his scrotum before clipping it off, too, metal rings spreading all of him thin. A moment for the snap of rubber gloves and a little lube, and then the first metal is slid on, hooked just inside the head of Steve's cock. He knows it isn't what he thinks it is, he knows it's not desecrating something he loves, but it's incredible to feel its weight, the cool underside of it pressed up against hot flesh and he can't help but think--

“You're okay, it's okay,” Jim sing-songs, thumb rubbing circles into Steve's thigh. “Two more. You can do this.” 

Steve exhales shakily, “Sir yes sir.” 

“May I continue, soldier?” Jim asks primly. 

It takes a moment but,“sir, yes sir.” 

Jim fingers each of Steve's nipples until they're hard and then hangs his metals off there, too. “Salute.” 

Steve hesitates for a second. 

“You're coming incredibly close to getting the worst of me, Soldier,” Jim says, voice breaking over his arousal. “ _Salute._ ” 

Steve opens. The metal gag gets pushed into his mouth. Jim ratchets it wide, wider still. 

There's a moment of silence, and then, “Find me.” 

Steve's tongue curls out, searches blindly until it hits cock. He stops for a moment, drags his tongue over the head slowly. He leans over a little, the trunk of his body going with him, tongue searching for more skin. His blood fizzles, hungry to please. 

Jim stays quiet, tastes salty and citrusy. Steve wishes he had his vision, would use his eyes to make the rest of this easier. He knows how to do it blindly, bobing up and down, tracing the vein. He can't do nearly as much as he usually would, so he takes what he can, clenches down until he hears Jim's impatient moan. 

Jim pulls away, and Steve chokes at the loss, falls forward because he's given too much of himself. Jim kneels inward, catches him before he can do any damage to himself. The metals make an uneasy noise, too close to a bell for Steve's liking. 

Jim settles him back onto knees, heels. 

“Give me your tongue,” he orders. Steve obeys, tries not to whimper when Jim sticks a clamp with a weight onto that, too. “Interesting. I think we're close to settling on your proper uniform, solider.” 

Jim's hands push the T-shirt back, over Steve's head to wrap even tighter around his hands, and the light comes flooding back into Steve's eyes. He yelps, tries to turn away but can't get very far. 

Jim returns to the chair, sits down, anchors his head on his hand. Any other context and Steve would tease him about it, ask if he could draw how disheveled and unimpressed Jim looks right now, cock hanging from his boxers, leather boots unlaced, an Arc Reactor strapped lazily against his chest and a single metal forearm, hand. But the look in Jim's eyes explains everything, all the angles of Steve's situation. 

An outstretched boot lazily comes to rest between Steve's legs, slides under his pelvis to give everything a nudge, from balls to plug. Steve looks down, looks at his cock laying against the ankle of Jim's boot. It's tempting to nudge back. 

“You do not have permission to rut like a _dog_ on me, soldier.” 

It's hard to get out “Sir yes sir, thank you sir,” but Steve has to, wants to, it's the only thing keeping him together. The metal hanging from his cock bobbles in time with every nudge and it is a simple but effective torture. 

Jim leans forward, reaches his hand out for Steve's hair. Pulls him forward, holds him still. There are rules, Steve thinks, he made some of them, and approved the rest. He has to-- 

Electricity zips through his body again, the fingers of the Gauntlet landing on his collarbone. Steve screams, tries to throw his head back but he's sufficiently held still like this, can't get away. 

“Thank me.” 

Thank you sir.

There's another zap against Steve's torso, a long searing line of heat. He clamps his eyes shut and turns away. 

“Undisciplined,” Jim snarls. He grabs the metal hanging from the clamp on Steve's tongue, and the electricity rolls everywhere this time, crawls over him like he's possessed. His eyes roll back, and he stops, gives up, can't fight this anymore. “Do you know why you're suffering, right now?” 

Sir, no sir. 

Another casual line of pain across a thigh, and Jim catches that dangling weight with his teeth, pulls Steve's tongue. He leans back, back until the spike of pain makes Steve choke, stuck between wanting to pull away and wanting to stay. Steve sinks into that willful indecision until he forgets who Jim is, until all that's left is Sir. 

Steve is Sir's pincushion, made of determination and latent power and high tolerance; Sir's perfect little superhuman. He wants that, honest. Steve's here because he wants to be, enduring this because he's asked for it, because he revealed something a little too personal. He ran out of ways to explain what's going on in his head. Because he ruine--

“Because it really makes me hard, Captain,” Sir answers his own question with the voice of a conspirator. “You're in deep and you choose to stay in deep because it's what I want, and you're here for what _I_ want.” 

Sir, yes sir. Steve can't breathe without feeling like his body needs the electricity, needs to be plugged in. He makes the mistake of clenching down on the plug, orgasm just a hair's length away. He's pliable, now, would do anything Sir asked in that voice, just lets his body fall in the place Sir was sitting, lets hands cascade down his thighs, pull his hips backward. 

Steve always likes this part, it feels like the final act sometimes, where Sir lets everything fall into place, orders him not to come or come in an instant, telling him to watch or help as Sir finds his own release. 

“Don't fuck up my chair,” Sir replies. “You'll be wishing I'd take it this easy on you if you fuck up my chair.” 

It's hard to swallow in this position, with his mouth wretched open and his tongue weighed down, and Steve's skin feels like it's too tight everywhere, drenched with sweat. He can't come in this position, and he's brimming with frustration. 

Sir may I...

“Not through with you,” Sir cuts him off at the pass, and suddenly the waves of pain are coming sharper, closer together, no room to breathe or think or care about anything else. Steve's head hangs on the chair as electricity courses through one of the heel trainers, inescapable. 

Please, sir, may I...

“No.” 

It feels hard to even breathe, his body feels so heavy when Sir's hand isn't on him. When the reactor's power isn't traversing him. When--

“You still think all of this is something you'd get away with giving to someone else? You think they'd know what to do with it? A fuckin' Super Soldier down on his knees, ready to jump however high is desired? You think _she_ would accept this?” 

Damnit, Steve thinks. This is what he asked for, demanded, because he knew it would mean just thinking of it again would send him back to this, how surrender tastes in this moment. This is what Sir's bound him up in, this is what he deserv--

“I don't think so.” 

Another jolt presses through his thighs, electricity coursing through his veins. He lowers his head to the seat, desperate. He needs it now, more than anything else, needs it all over him, Sir's marks. 

“You always were good at begging,” Sir says, fondly, but the walls are closing in and his hands are coming closer to that one thing that ruins everything, here, that makes this all less perfect. 

Steve clenches like he's trying to push the plug out or away but it won't work, can't work. He's stuck with this, no other way. 

“You wanna come?” Sir asks him, Steve tries to will himself to nod, but it's impossible to do right now: all that's left is to whimper and beg. 

Sir, yes please sir please I--

A hand grabs his hair, yanks him backward off the chair, and the first jolt of electricity against the plug is heart-stopping, has him screaming, sobbing, crying for it. It's all the things he's never wanted, too much stimulation in a place he hates but all he can do is take it, have it, own it. 

“You don't come unless it's on this,” Sir's snarling now, in the air between them. “You don't get to come unless it's like this. So fucking _come_ like the good little piece of fuck you are.” 

I can't. 

“You can,” Sir soothes, and the electricity cranks up even higher. Higher, higher. 

Steve can't, he won't, but he has to, he needs it, the pain a constant thrumming against the inside of his skin, pressed everywhere. He's shivering, needy, but his arms are still tied and Sir's got his legs pressed together and it feels so big, so huge inside him, a turbine all its own. 

Please please please c'mon please. 

“I've given you orders.” 

The sensation keeps climbing, blinding.

“You will follow them.” 

Steve feels like he's burning, searing with humiliation, feels held back from release. 

“To the letter, soldier.” 

I...I can't I physically can't you don't understand.

The hand in his hair recedes, and then the last clench is agony, leaden dead weight. He's nothing but a home for it now, a container. And he can barely even remember to breathe, squirming, shaking, done. But it keeps going, it keeps going even when he thinks he can't give anymore. 

A beat, two longer. Three. A breath, four. He's lost all control of himself. Five, six. 

There's nothing left. 

 

 

 

It's dripping down his legs, when he comes to, and the plug's still shoved up inside him. 

His mouth is free of the gag, and his arms are unshackled, too. Si--Jim's hands are bare, sliding down the muscles, coaxing blood to circulate. 

Steve's still in pretty deep, but it feels good to gasp as pins and needles overcome his biceps and forearms. 

“You know how proud of you I am?” Jim asks, softly. “How gorgeous you are?” 

Steve looks, really looks. Rhodes is hard in his underwear, everything cinched and pulled in tight. 

“Let me,” Steve starts. He makes a fist and it hurts a little, rolls his wrist on the other hand. Jim shakes his head, reaches for the water bottle off to the side of the chair, flicks up the straw and offers it instead. Steve opens his mouth, drinks, and drinks, and drinks. Jim's long fingers, slender and warm, slide up behind Steve's neck. Little soothing circles, like he's wondering if he's gone too far. 

When Steve's had his fill, he backs away, listens to his breath even out. He comes up a little, feels buoyant as he takes a deep breath and tries refocusing his eyes on the pockmarks of Jim's cheeks, indentations and wrinkles set on dark brown skin. Jim unscrews the cap and tips the bottle into his mouth, collecting a mouth full of ice and crunching down. 

Steve knows he's still floating, riding on nothing but adrenaline. His skin is powdery with sweat, and he reaches down to unlock one of the trainers, shirk it from his feet. Jim silently reaches down and unbuckles the other, sliding it free. 

He reaches for the water bottle again, takes another long drink. It's still burning at the front of his thoughts, the punishment, why he asked for it, how it's still sitting inside him with his ball of insecurity. 

He lies down, feels it catch against his pelvis and whimpers out loud. “Please, please.” 

“Shh,” Jim replies, lifts Steve's legs and lets them bend at the knee, rest over his shoulders. 

And then it starts to move, inside him, Jim warming his hole back up with lube to make it easier. 

“It's okay,” Jim soothes. “Relax, I got you.” 

Steve does, and the plug slides out gently, stretches him thin and doesn't stop until its gone. 

“That thing seems to get bigger every time we use it,” he comments dreamily, his toes curling. 

“We just don't use it enough for you to get used to it,” Jim says, runs a finger around the obvious gape. “Could you come again, like this?” 

Steve stretches his spine, rolls over. “You and the stamina thing.” 

“I'm equal parts infatuated and envious,” Jim replies, slides a finger in so gently it's hard to even feel it. But Steve can feel the tickling pressure against his prostate. Steve promises himself he won't be so expressive about it this time, won't let Jim see how every little motion is equal parts annoyance and sheer pleasure, promises he won't display every hitch of breath and twitch.

Jim's finger strokes just right against him, and there's a wave of pleasure so thorough it's impossible not to groan, grab for something to hang onto. 

“Just a little bit more,” he soothes. “You're doing so good.” 

Steve's hands reach into his hair, grabbing there because he has nothing else he can get a hold of. Above the waist he feels numb, useless and--

Jim leans down, kisses a line up from his finger, over Steve's tight scrotum, against the base of his cock, all the way up to just under the head. He takes the last little bit in his mouth, swirls his tongue in time with his finger. Steve's resolve erodes like sand at high tide. 

“Please, please, please,” he chants. 

Jim leans up, rests his head on Steve's stomach for a moment. “Please what?” 

“Christ, Rhodes. Let me come,” Steve says, unprepared for how quiet he sounds. “C'mon, c'mon...” 

“And it's all about me and the stamina thing, right?” Jim grins and slows down. He's lazy about it, weak tracing licks against the head, strokes inside Steve that take forever. But he wants it forced out of him, wants it to knock against him. It has to surprise him like this, doesn't work any other way. 

“I need more, I need...” 

“It's okay,” Jim soothes, “You're fine.” 

He's not, he feels broken into jagged pieces strewn out on their bedroom floor. He--

\--doesn't even realize he's coming, spilling against himself without his cooperation. He has nothing but the surprise, the articulation of that final note. 

“You always come so goddamn hard, and the faces you make,” Jim says, dragging his fingers through the mess, “like you break your brain. Like your body needs a hard reset.”

“That's your fault,” Steve grins, breathlessly. He tries to find his way. “Water?” 

The bottle is held up to his lips, and he takes another long drink. 

Jim's arched over him, nipping at his collarbone, their heat merging together. He's still hard, even after all this time, and Steve's glad the scene is over, because he could never ask that version of Jim to join him in hitting the showers. 

“A shower with my very own Captain America?” Jim teases. “I would be an idiot not to.” 

 

 

 

 

Steve knows there was space for them at the tower. He's never really liked Manhattan, never found much reason for its overpriced glitz and appeal. Brooklyn has always been his home, even when he was frozen and life passed him by. It wouldn't feel right to leave it to the hipsters who constantly long to get run of the place. 

Steve doesn't think Jim made that decision because they were already becoming close, but Stark suggested they buddy up, and find someplace nice. Sent over a packet of real estate listings with exposed brick and granite countertops, establishments that forgot what this place really was so long ago in Steve's memories, what it could be to Jim. In the end, they ended up taking the cheapest on the list: a run-down warehouse of a loft, a fixer-upper. They spent a weekend replacing the toilet and a week replacing the floors. That first night while sleeping on the new floor, they'd rolled into each other, wrapped around each other, found mouths and tongues and let breath hitch. That first night they saw how it could work, why it would be worth it. 

Three days later, Steve had come home to a freestanding shower enclosed with glass and bamboo, with enough space for the both of them to spread out. It was likely the most expensive thing to have ever existed in the place, and when Jim got home from DC that weekend, he'd sighed and said, “I guess the asshole wasn't happy we didn't end up spending more of his money.” 

Now, Steve's standing in the middle of the space, washing himself clean as water cascades over the top of his head from the too-attractive hole in the cube's ceiling. Jim's sitting off to the side, leaning against the wall naked as he eats an apple. 

And in retrospect, maybe the reason why this is here was because everybody knew it would end up like this, the two of them. 

“I'm sorry, you know,” Steve says. “I...” 

“Thought we weren't talking about it,” Jim replies, reaches over to flick the shower off and turn on the sauna fan. Steve wipes cool water off his face and sits down opposite. 

“I just saw her and wondered, you know, what it would have been like to pull her aside and catch up, Dinner and a movie. Bring her back to my place, but you and I- We couldn't exist if I wanted that. I wouldn't put her through that, I wouldn't make it complicated when it would need to be simple.” 

“That doesn't offend me the way you think it should,” he shrugs. “You loved her once. Why do you think that's punishable?”

“Because for a good 20 minutes, I really did entertain the idea of breaking up with you. I came close to calling, to saying those words on some whim for a person I...look, how can you think that's not punishable?” 

“Sit up straight,” Jim says. It's a command, they're still too deep for that voice to be anything else. Steve does as he's told, points his gaze forward and focuses in, pushes himself down. He can see Jim get off the bench in his periphery. The shower's filling with steam, now, the air becoming opaque. “If I really wanted to punish you, Captain? Over thinking about an ex?” 

Steve licks his lips, grabs at the edges of the bench, feels another jagged wave of submission fall over him. 

Jim's hands reach out, trace Steve's shoulders, his collarbones, the lines of his neck and jaw. “I wouldn't have bothered playing if I wanted to punish you.” 

Oh fuck, Steve thinks as he leans into the touch, the fight draining out of him once more. 

The hand at his neck tightens, until every breath is a gift. Jim's lips lean down against Steve's ear. “I would've sucker-punched your lights out and called it a night.” 

Reality crashes back in, and he grabs at Jim, hands pulling Jim's hips toward him, atop him, directing Jim's mouth to his. He unravels, like he didn't even have the guilt in the first place, like it hadn't been pushed further down. There's a moment of pressure, a low groan, and then he's inside Jim, the two of them bundled together. And Steve wants this, like nothing he's ever tasted before, wants the way narrow, muscular hips rise and fall against his, wants the way Jim collapses against him and moves, wants the bitten off grunts and groans and broken words in Jim's mouth. Their mouths meet, desperate and out of control and he sees nothing but abandon between them now. 

Jim's tight, clutching at Steve's shoulders and pawing at the wall they're leaning against while he hisses at the stretch and burn. Steve's fingers trace down the arch of that back, grabs a hand overflowing with that ass, and holds it still as he readjusts his hips, knows what he's doing even though he has no clue. 

“Goddamn, Rogers,” it rips through Jim, causes the walls to constrict even more, and Steve takes his mouth and owns it, takes his hips and owns them too, rolling them up and down his cock until Jim has no other choice but to fight through the pain and come, jerking and silent like they're in some foxhole together instead of a space they could barely make a home without each other's help. 

It feels wrong for a moment. There's another grunt of annoyance: a reminder that they don't do this often enough to find it enjoyable, either. Jim sort of seems at peace with that, and Steve's taken aback at the sacrifice as Jim lifts away, reaches over to start the shower again. 

“I just don't want to fuck us up,” Steve shakes his head, clears the fog from his skull. “I don't want to hurt you, or what we have. This is home, y'know?” 

“You should be easier on yourself,” Jim notes, and reaches for the soap. Steve nods, sighs, and stretches for that apple, snatches it with the tips of his fingers, brings it to his mouth. “Stop being guilty for stuff that didn't happen.” 

“It's hard, sometimes,” he admits. 

Jim chuckles, and Steve feels the weight of his gaze through the steam, “ain't that the truth?” 

 

 

 

 

“We don't have to watch that,” Jim shakes his head after they've put clothes on again, standing in the makeshift living room, “I'm sure we could find something with more explosions.” 

Jim's been ushering him through the evolution of modern action movies, and they've been working through the foreign language classics on so-called 'date nights.' The movie they were supposed to watch after dinner is still sitting atop the TV in the little red envelope. Steve flicks out the cheap paper sleeve, reads the description.

“I like the sound of this one, but...” 

“It's late,” Jim recites Steve's favorite words, “and you'll fall asleep if it's not in English.” 

“You say it like you don't fall asleep, too.” 

“I never turn it down because I'll fall asleep halfway through.” Jim says. “So more explosions, then?” 

“Tony let me borrow his copy of _Rumble in the Bronx_ , a few days ago. Never got around to watching that,” Steve shrugs.

“So he gave you a copy of 'woodchipper in New York?' Haven't seen that in a while, I'd be up for another go,” Jim walks to the kitchen. “Popcorn?” 

“We still have any more of that root beer? The good stuff?” 

There's rustling in the fridge, glass bottles and take out cartons shoved aside. “No, but we still have that growler from the brewery down the street.” 

“I'm pretty sure that's not going to be nearly as good as it was when we got it last week.” 

“Are you seriously going to let that stop you from drinking it?” 

“Rhodes, you know how much I hate it when you have a point.” 

Jim does his best not to look smug as he puts the glass liter bottle down on the table. 

The microwave beeps, and the smell of artificial butter fills the loft. Jim puts the bowl beside himself on the couch, reaches over to pour into his glass. The DVD tray closes, and the 'you wouldn't steal a car' advertisement music blares obnoxiously. Steve rolls his eyes and presses mute on the stereo remote as he sits down. 

“This is getting there, but it's not that bad if we finish it tonight,” Jim notes, and pushes the glass into Steve's hand. It tastes a little sweeter and tangier than it should, but it's passable. “I'll have to make a list of shit to do while you're off saving the world tomorrow.” 

“You say that like you wouldn't drop food shopping for a fly-over on your day off,” Steve notes. 

“Oh no, I totally would,” Jim says, quickly. “But we all know Steve Rogers can't go anywhere without getting mobbed.” 

“Well, I'm sorry someone's jealous about that,” Steve snipes. 

“I'll have you know I'm only jealous about it when it gets you out of chores.” 

“Only you would consider stocking our refrigerator a chore,” Steve doesn't understand this millennium, seriously. “Back in my day...” 

Jim flips him off. 

“Look, I'll take the day,” Steve says. “Go with you. Push the cart, come home, mop the floor.” 

“You know I love it when you talk domestic,” Jim's flat, deadened sarcasm always seems to feel like home. 

“Go to the library, pick up _Little Women_ on tape, come home, listen to it as I bake you cupcakes and make you fresh lemonade and iron your uniform and pick out something lacy to wear while I make your martini as you walk through the door...” Steve lists. “Just a typical day's work, no problem.” 

Jim snorts, “So, basically you want to be the gay interracial rehash of _Leave It To Beaver_ , tomorrow.” 

“Don't we need two kids for that?” Steve points out. 

“You could just come grocery shopping with me when you get off duty,” Jim says. 

“I could, but they can call me if they need me. You're in town, on our couch for the first time in a month, I think everyone will understand if I decide to spend time with you instead of in the suit,” Steve shrugs. “Besides, your plan sounds incredibly cupcake deficient and we both know that's a tactical disadvantage.” 

Jim laughs, shoves a handful of popcorn in Steve's mouth. “Shut up and watch the movie.” 

They do end up falling asleep on each other in a lump on the couch, somewhere between lovers and roommates, and it feels weird to be in this position for a moment as Steve wakes up in the middle of the night, stricken by the very context of this, of how Jim knew everything and still didn't mind, how he'd seen the best of Steve in his insecurities and took the leftovers and _reciprocated_ , sacrificed just as much. 

“Hey you,” Jim interrupts, sleepily. “Stop thinkin' and c'm to bed.” 

“Yeah,” Steve nods. “Bed'd be good.” 

There's an effort to make sure everything's squared away, the TV's turned off and then they're both rolled into the same lump in the sheets, wandering in and out of consciousness, plying each other down. 

“Love you,” Jim says, and means it, even though he only ever says it in the dark, fitting effortlessly into Steve's arms, too tired to keep his guard up. 

“Love you too,” Steve admits, and folds Jim into his arms, knows there's no way he could forefit this.

“You're in charge of figuring out brunch, t'morrow,” Jim yawns. “I expect mimosas.” 

“Spoiled brat,” Steve snorts as sleep takes hold. 

It turned out to be a good night, after all.


End file.
